


The Faerie Queen (Epilogue 2)

by rosenritter



Series: Expectations and Epilogues [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bullying, Family, Kid Fic, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, School, Siblings, just terrible jokes actually, kids are jerks especially about gender, terrible running jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosenritter/pseuds/rosenritter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second epilogue to Expectations. Reading the fics that precede this will help a lot with little things, especially since the first chapter takes place during the first epilogue.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The odds that Andromeda Holmes will rule the world one day are quite good. If so, pray she is a merciful tyrant.</p>
<p>In which a brief history of Sherlock and John’s daughter is detailed, leading up to her breaking a record by getting into a fight on her very first day of school. But for a very good reason: anybody who questions her femininity is in for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry such a long wait happened between this and the previous fic. RL has been very, very crazy lately and even though I intended this story to be about as long as The Frog Prince, it's well over twice its length. Eesh. So I thank you for your patience! There will be a few more notes at the end of the (exceedingly long) final chapter.

The door had just slid shut with a soft click when John found himself slammed against it, covered head-to-toe by Sherlock’s thin frame. He had just enough time to suppress his Army-instilled hand-to-hand combat instinct and gasp half of the Alpha’s name before the rest was snatched away by a pair of very persistent lips. Something warm and eager deep in John bubbled up in response, and he relaxed into the embrace. As soon as the kiss deepened, however, a hint of copper hit John’s tongue and his brow furrowed. It was a bit of an ordeal to wriggle around until his hands were on Sherlock’s shoulders, but once they were there, he pushed until Sherlock got the hint. Or needed fresh air, more likely.

“Blood?” he asked, panting. “Why on Earth is there blood in your mouth?”

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath. He shifted, bending to rest his chin on John’s good shoulder, his lips just grazing John’s ear. “Diverted attention,” he murmured. “The trade-off for your contraception medication is a slightly dulled scent. As you are not taking – to borrow the especially twee euphemism Mrs. Hudson recently used – your ‘precautions’, you’re… pronounced.” 

“So I smell nice. Great. Doesn’t explain the blood.”

“I was forced to make a choice between biting the inside of my cheek with enough force to provide a distraction or doing _this_ –“ Sherlock’s incisors pinched John’s earlobe, eliciting a gasp. He continued, “- among other things in front of our landlady, our very young son, and a frog.”

Even with several hours before the heat came on in earnest, John had to admit that he did feel more sensitive than he usually did. Having only experienced a very small handful of heats without the aid of contraceptives, he had a significantly skewed pool for comparison. After all, the most recent example was five years ago, a fluke, and had resulted in the child who was spending the next few days with Mrs. Hudson. Time and muddled feelings made the whole thing a bit fuzzy.

But all that was far too articulate for John’s brain to deal with at the moment, so he settled for, “Ah. That-that’s why you were so, er, quiet then. Good choice. A+. Gold star.” 

Sherlock gave an amused huff. “And people say I ramble.”

“People – including you – can shove it. Sofa now.”

Without breaking their embrace, the two shuffled across the flat until they collapsed onto the sofa. Sherlock compared the movement to that of a rare, poisonous sea anemone, which John cuffed him across the ribs for. Sherlock might not have lived up to Sally Donovan’s homicide predictions, but there where times when he could really be a merciless murderer of romantic moods. As unattractive as it was to be compared to a strange sea creature, if even indirectly, at least it cleared the air between them a bit, allowing a less frenzied pace than the initial door attack had promised.

The kisses turned long, slow, and lazy, with occasional interruptions for Sherlock or John to gasp for breath and arch against the other. Their hands slid beneath the fabric of their clothes to explore familiar yet still endlessly interesting and inviting planes of skin, firm groupings of muscle, sweat-dampening hair at the base of the neck. 

John felt the first strange sensation against the junction where his knee met his calf just as he was beginning to pluck open the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. He felt it a few more times as he made progress. It happened a fifth time as he finished his task. He finally frowned and said, “Sherlock, you’re _buzzing._ ”

“Phone,” Sherlock stated. He looked vaguely thoughtful for a moment before he added, “Probably.”

John sighed. “Well, check it out. Might be important.”

“Can’t reach. Someone appears to be straddling me and access is blocked,” Sherlock said, running a hand down John’s thigh in demonstration.

In response, John reached into Sherlock’s pocket, making sure to slide his own hand firmly against the fabric-covered skin there as he sought the phone. He handed it to Sherlock. “Yeah, well ‘someone’ says to make sure nobody is dying right this second.”

Sherlock thumbed through a line of texts. He glared at the screen, tapping out a response before burying the phone beneath a cushion. “There.”

“Is it important?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, choosing instead to reach up to tug at John’s neck until the Omega lay slumped over him. John gave him a skeptical look.

The phone buzzed again. “Give it to me,” John said. When Sherlock frowned at him petulantly, John’s squint narrowed. “Let me see the phone or I’m going straight to one of those safe houses for Omegas in heat.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sherlock took in John’s face: the set of his jaw, the tightness in his lips, the twitch in his brow. He pulled the phone out from beneath the cushion, handed it to John, and grumbled something vague.

John looked through the recent texts.

_Got a case. Urgent. – GL_

_Serial killer has kidnapped a third victim. – GL_

_Claims to be the world’s greatest puzzle master. Likes to give clues, counts down to the murder. – GL_

_Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, pick up the phone! – GL_

_We’re working on a deadline! – GL_

_As am I. Additional: criminal is pretentious and tedious. Truly great puzzle masters never announce themselves as such. – SH_

_We only have 5 hours before the girl he’s got gets killed! – GL_

John frowned and gave Sherlock a thump on the shoulder. “Nobody’s getting killed just so we can get a leg over before the heat even starts properly,” he said. Slowly, he began to peck out a response text: _WE’RE ON THE WAY. BUT WE’VE GOT PLANS AND MAY BE A BIT DISTRACVBF_

John hissed, eyes shutting and head tilting back at the sharp pinch Sherlock inflicted on his nipple. “Made me send a typo, you prat,” he grumbled. Sherlock’s only response was a smirk against his neck. The phone vibrated twice in John’s hand and he glimpsed back down.

_? – GL_

_Oh God. Remembered what “plans” is code for. Find her quick, then. – GL_

“Well that’s that,” John said. He untangled himself from Sherlock and stood, holding his temple as a slight wave of light-headedness washed over him. He shook his head and slapped his cheeks; anything to clear up the disappointed hormones starting to build in his system. He turned back to Sherlock, who was still lying in a fit of bare-chested, boneless pique on the sofa. “Any time you’d like to get up and get a bit less disheveled would be great.”

“I never intended for the girl to become a casualty. I have the utmost confidence that I can locate Lestrade’s boring little ‘puzzle master’ within the hour, well within his time limit and before the heat hits its stride.” He scowled. “Therefore, there is no rush.”

“Sorry, can’t seem to get in the mood for a quickie when someone’s life is at stake,” John said. “If this sulk is about not getting off, just think about something unappealing until it goes away. Like, I don’t know, picture Mycroft nude.”

Sherlock lurched into a sitting position and gave a shuddering gag. “Congratulations, John. I shall never have another erection again. Absalom will forever be an only child.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be singing a different tune in a few hours. Well, if you count moaning as singing.”

“No, it’s broken. Hopelessly, irrevocably broken.” Sherlock made quick work of buttoning up his shirt and continued, “Granted, I would have been extremely grateful for such a permanent physical incapacity six or so years ago, but your presence has made me grow moderately fond of something which is otherwise messy and worthless.”

“’Moderately fond’, my arse.”

“Yes, that as well.”

John rolled his eyes. He made a quick dash to their bedroom and then the bathroom, and when he returned he was rubbing a handful of a mild temporary scent moderating tincture into his neck. He saw Sherlock wrinkle his nose in distaste. “You know this stuff won’t last long. Don’t want other Alphas getting sniffy and having ideas, do you? Now come on, let’s go catch a bad guy. You said you could find him within the hour, right?” 

“Of course. Easily.”

John grinned as they stepped out of the flat. He held up a digital stopwatch and said, “You’re on the clock.”

His thumb tapped ‘start’.

\---

Once Sherlock and John were given the hints the Yard had received, it took exactly thirty-three minutes, four seconds, and five hundred twenty-three milliseconds for them to find the killer and kidnapped girl. Including commute time. To and fro.

Sherlock spent the following two hours castigating the Yarders for their incompetence, at least until John tugged at his sleeve and whispered that they needed to leave urgently. Not wanting to deal with the potential fiasco that is an Omega in heat in crowded public transportation, Sherlock pickpocketed the keys to Anderson’s new car.

They had just barely made it to Baker Street when the first wave hit, which they spent fogging the windows of the vehicle. An hour or so later, they were capable of wobbling into the flat to experience the rest of the heat, but there were two lasting repercussions.

The first: Anderson would need to completely reupholster his car. It was a nightmare.

The second: Somehow, through a truly baffling coincidence, the baby girl born later that year would share the initials of her name with the phrase “Anderson’s Mazda”.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just want to go ahead and apologize for two things in this chapter. 1) Mucking around with historical figures in relation to this 'verse, and 2) how very, very silly the comedic situations are.
> 
> You'll probably know what I'm talking about.

Even before she was born, Andromeda Marie Holmes was the polar opposite of her older brother. Unlike Abby, who had been the product of a tumultuous pregnancy and premature birth, Andromeda’s delivery seemed to set a standard for the philosophy she would adopt as she lived out the rest of her life: that absolutely everything must be on her own terms, up to and including being ‘fashionably late’.

She was due to be born around 30 October, which had John dreading a birth on Hallowe’en. But 01 November came and nothing. A few more days passed, which had John fearing a birth on Bonfire Night. But again, nothing. Finally, in the very early hours of 07 November, John went into labour. He’d never been happier to be in pain; being overdue had completely dried up his patience to the point that he was threatening to start charging the baby rent. 

The labour felt much longer than it had with Abby, partially because John now knew what the signs meant, but also because Andromeda was a scant ten ounces shy of weighing twice as much as her brother had at his birth. As uncomfortable as it was, it wasn’t without its plus sides. With the risk of catastrophic complications being negligible at the very most, she passed her health evaluation with flying colours and was cleared to leave the hospital as soon as John had rested up a bit. It was a far cry from the long three week stay Abby had needed in order to thrive in the outside world.

Then there was the fact that, as she’d stayed put longer, there was no last minute rush to come up with a name for her, even if on a very technical level one could argue that that wasn’t quite true. The middle name Sherlock and John had settled on wound up being scrapped purely on the basis that their daughter was born precisely 150 years after Marie Skłodowska. John was familiar with her most well-known achievement, the discovery of radium, but mostly because schools often focused on the achievements of the element’s co-founder, her husband Pierre, as a role model for young Omegas. But given that Sherlock spent a good portion of the labour recounting the achievements of the original Marie, and that as soon as Andromeda was born they now had their own Alpha girl to contend with, the name seemed quite fitting.

Although her middle name changed, her first name stuck, and not just because they had already grown attached to it. While that was certainly true, it was also because they’d actively sought it out. All because John and Sherlock had approached Mrs. Hudson to gauge her opinion on naming their daughter after her only to have the elderly woman balk at the idea.

“I’m flattered, but in my family, you only gave a baby another person’s name once they’d already used up their share of it,” she had said. “I may be a bit creaky, but I haven’t even got one foot in the grave yet! Besides, Martha – not exactly a stand-out name, is it?”

In compromise, they asked her for a list of her favourite names, which John later read to Sherlock with increasing bafflement. “Esmeralda, Octavia, Anastasia, Serenity, Amethyst… wow, I think Mrs. Hudson really likes flowery romance novels,” John said.

“That isn’t obvious?” Sherlock saw John shake his head, and he sighed dramatically. “Pay closer attention to the way she applies her rouge on special occasions. It is the colour and contour of someone with a crippling addiction to yellowed Regency paperbacks, typically with at least one scene of an Omega swooning on a fainting sofa and/or an Alpha gazing at said swooning protagonist with – quote – ‘smouldering eyes’ while loosening his or her cravat.”

John just shook his head and continued reading, “Thalia, and… Andromeda. She underlined that last one and wrote a little ‘Very lovely!’ next to it.”

Sherlock took a sharp breath and proceeded to separate the wheat from the chaff. “One: green stone, also Spanish. No. Two: traditionally given to an eighth child. Inaccurate. No. Three: assassinated royalty. No. Four: given her lineage, the meaning of that name is very likely to become inaccurate at best and ironic at worst. No. Five: another rock, this time purple. No. Six: ah, one of the Muses. Mummy would have approved, but you already struck down that notion quite some time ago. No. Seven…” He paused for a moment, lowering his brow in thought. “Latinized Greek. Likely loose etymological meaning becomes ‘she who has bravery in her mind’.”

“Oh, I like that. That’s good,” John said. “Unless you’ve got any serious objections, I think that’s the keeper. It’s got a good meaning, got a nice ring to it, looks to be Mrs. Hudson’s favourite from her list… as long as you don’t go around giving her a swelled head saying the Andromeda Galaxy is named after her.”

“The what?”

“Right. Never mind.”

But perhaps it was for the best that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to fill his daughter’s head with space-related lies. After all, it wouldn’t be very long at all before others got caught in her orbit, and not even her uncle or father were safe from her particular ways.

The best two examples of this phenomenon happened within a week of each other.

\---

In the four years that had passed since her birth, Andromeda – or Andy as John had immediately taken to calling her – had grown from a chubby, blue eyed, bald baby into a thin, grey eyed, strawberry blonde little girl. At first John was sure the rogue ginger genes didn’t come from his side, which tended to favour ashier blonds or lighter browns. But then he remembered the (often pretty ribald) stories he’d heard about the Scottish grandfather who had passed away when Harry was still an only child. 

He was content with this explanation until one particular afternoon. John was off from work, Abby was at school, and Sherlock had a case that – according to his increasingly ecstatic texts – had him investigating a severed leg found clogging a pipe in a sewage treatment plant. John planned on scouring him in disinfectant before allowing him into the flat, and the leg wasn’t allowed within a mile radius. It was just he and Andy in the flat, and as she was down for her nap, John was ready for a moment or two of peace to himself. He unfolded his paper and relaxed in his chair.

And then Mycroft showed up.

If he had a reason for his visit, he didn’t let John in on it. When John informed him that Sherlock was likely to be out for quite some time, being as wrapped up as he was in a new case’s legwork (John made a mental note to keep that awful pun if the case were blog-worthy), Mycroft simply smiled mildly and said that he could wait.

A response like that required some therapeutic tea-making. John tucked his paper beneath his arm and went to the kitchen to get to work. As he waited for the water to boil, his eyes scanned for something quick to read. Though he normally skipped advice columns, the question caught his attention: 

**My wife and I have a son who is ginger, but she’s a dark brunette and I’ve got brown hair. I’m a Beta and she’s an Omega if that makes any difference. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but… well, he’s very ginger. – Really Edgy Dad**

The only thing that struck John about the answer to RED’s plight was that, apparently, it took two to tango when it came to ginger hair. The recessive gene John picked up from his grandfather wasn’t enough, and therefore at least one person in the long, proud Holmes lineage of dark, dark hair owed a debt to bottles of dye. John smirked.

Once the tea was ready, John set it on a tray and headed back to the living room. “I just read in the paper that _both_ parents need to have the gene for reddish hair to have a child with –“ He looked at the sitting area and nearly dropped the tray. “What on earth is going on here?”

Mycroft and Andy were sitting opposite each other, a crayon drawing of a circle with a line through it between them. On one side was a scribble of a smiling fairy, while the other side had a scribble of a frowning, fanged and horned creature. Andy had changed out of her nap clothes and into the outrageously pink and glittery fairy princess costume she had worn for Hallowe’en, and the large lavender butterfly wings attached to her back made it difficult to sit properly. Mycroft’s appearance was unaltered, save for the fact that he was wearing one of the Viking helmets John had (thankfully) not seen in nearly five years. 

“I am the Queen of All Fairies and Uncle Mycroft is the ambassador of the Troll Kingdom and we are having a diplamotic meeting about the border between our lands,” Andy said loftily.

“Diplomatic,” Mycroft corrected.

“Thank you, ambassador. We are not used to that word and our Fairy accent is strong.”

John set the tray down with a bit more force than was necessary. He pointed to Andy. “ _You_ are supposed to be having a nap.“ 

Andy’s grey eyes squinted as she pulled a sour face. “We have issued a royal decree that naps are illegal.”

“Oh, really?” John folded his arms over his chest. “Well, I’m the King of Baker Street, and I uphold that naps are not only legal, but mandatory. Your Kingdom-”

“ _Queendom!_ ”

“Fine, Queendom, happens to be here, so what I say goes. It’s like saying it’s illegal for the sun to set. It’s going to happen anyway.”

“But the fairies and trolls are just about to go to war!”

“I think they’ll be fine for another hour. Upstairs, now.”

The pout on Andy’s face intensified, but she slid from her seat and trudged up the stairs to the room she shared with Abby, clomping her feet as she went. John knew what was coming, so he initiated his counter maneuver. “If you slam that door, no telly for a week.”

The door slid shut with a feather softness.

With that, John turned to Mycroft, who had the decency to remove the Viking helmet. “You know Sherlock hates this kind of thing.”

“John, if I had to keep from doing everything my little brother hates about me, I don’t think I would even be afforded the luxury of breathing. Besides, he engaged in much wilder bouts of make-believe when he was her age.”

“It’s not the make-believe; it’s you subtly grooming her to become your political heir.”

“’Subtly’?” Mycroft arched a single eyebrow, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Is that really how he describes it?”

“Not my word choice, I assure you. That is purely John’s improvisation, though otherwise the statement is accurate.”

John turned to the voice. There was Sherlock, standing just outside the open door and looking surprisingly clean for someone who’d spent much of the day surrounded by waste. He held a black airtight bag, and John’s stomach dropped when he recognized its shape. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, tell me that isn’t the leg.”

“How else am I to discern the nature of its severance without experimenting on it? I was taking it to my setup in 221C when I heard the tell-tale sound of a bag of pompous hot air in my home.” 

John gaped at him a moment before he shut his eyes tight and shook his head. “Just… for the love of God, go drop that thing off before anything else happens. The last thing Andy needs is to overhear her father and uncle arguing only to find a severed human leg – which has been soaking in sewage! - in the flat if she comes down to investigate.” 

Thankfully, Sherlock obliged. John wasn’t interested in hearing yet another Holmes fraternal squabble, so he went upstairs to check on Andy, who had fallen into a sulky sleep with her bum in the air and her wings still on. He tidied up the room a bit, mostly removing the pony toys that had been thrown to Abby’s side of the room. They vexed the boy so.

When he went back downstairs, Sherlock and Mycroft were gone. He assumed Sherlock had gone to subject a filthy leg to a bevy of esoteric experiments, and making a non-Diogenes-related conclusion about Mycroft’s activities or whereabouts was a stab in the dark at the best of times. John also couldn’t even begin to guess who won this last argument, if the word ‘won’ could apply to anything Sherlock and Mycroft did in relation to each other. 

Though later that year, on Andy’s fifth birthday, Mycroft would present her with an elaborate series of dollhouses which suspiciously resembled Whitehall, and Andy would proclaim her undying adoration of them before Sherlock could plot a way to “accidentally” smash them with an axe. If Mycroft’s satisfied look was anything to go by, then he certainly won that round.

\---

Three days after Mycroft’s visit, Sherlock solved the case of the leg. Two days after that and he was teetering on the precipice of boredom. Though he had become less wantonly destructive and dangerous now that he was a father, he was still prone to becoming fidgety and manic in the downtime between cases. On one hand, it often manifested in many unusual projects with the children, like the anatomically accurate replica of the human small intestine made entirely out of taffy. But stability was such an important need for children, especially ones as young as Abby and Andy, and the question of whether or not a bored Sherlock was capable of providing it was always at the forefront of John’s mind.

But John had hours at the surgery which couldn’t be shrugged off, as a flu making the rounds had left it quite understaffed. So that morning, on his way to take Abby to school and himself to work, he asked Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye or ear out in case things got out of hand.

When his shift ended, he dashed into a Tesco to pick up a few things they needed in the flat, but made sure to make it quick. As he was just preparing to checkout, he received a couple of strange text messages.

_Hullo, dear. At Mrs. Turner’s for a bit. Abby is in my flat. Don’t worry, the door is locked. Sherlock and Andy were a dream all day. – M. Turner_

_This is Mrs. Hudson by the way. – M. Turner_

Slightly confused, John made his way home. Instead of heading straight for B, he headed for Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Once there, he knocked on the door with his free hand and said, “Abby? It’s me. What’s going on?” He heard the lock click and the latch slide. The door opened, revealing Abby, who was still in his school uniform. “Why are you here?”

“Andy’s watching _the programme_ ,” Abby said. He shuddered. “There’s a marathon. It started just after Dad and Andy got me from school. I had to come to Gran’s to escape it.”

John sighed. “Is that all? I was worried, you know.”

“I couldn’t be in my room. Andy sings along with all the songs so loudly. I’d still have to hear it!”

“I just don’t know why you’re so irritated by it. It’s just a cartoon. Besides, it’s got a dragon in it. You like dragons.”

“I like _komodo_ dragons. They’re real and can carry over 50 stains of deadly bacteria in their saliva without getting ill themselves. That’s cool.” He winced in distaste for a moment before he added, “Pudgy, purple drawings aren’t.”

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll let you know when all the nasty pinkness and pudgy dragons have gone. You have to promise to lock the door again and only open it for me or your gran.”

As John turned to leave, Abby exclaimed, “Wait! You don’t know how serious this is!”

“Oh? Explain it then.”

“Dad’s watching it with her.”

John groaned. Sherlock was insufferable over the subject of television, and pitting it against Andy’s favourite show – a cartoon unabashedly for little girls – could only end in disaster. “Oh, God. I hope he’s not ruining it for her.“

“No. No, it’s so much worse than that.” Abby took a deep breath. “ _I think he likes it._ ”

John tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t hold in an amused snort, which turned into full-fledged laughter. When he was finally able to communicate through the giggles, he said, “Sorry, but I doubt that very much. Not a lot of crimes to be solved in My Li-“

“Don’t say the name!” Abby shut his eyes tight and clasped his hands over his ears. “Please, I hear enough about it from Andy as it is. Just… call it _the programme_.”

“Fine. There’s not a lot in _the programme_ to keep your father interested, from what I can tell.”

“Go see for yourself, then. I warned you!” With that, Abby closed the door, and John heard the lock click back into place and the latch slide to its original position.

John shook his head, amused by the theatrics. He made his way to 221B. When he opened the door, he was greeted to the sound of Andy’s favourite cartoon, untarnished by any angry complaints from Sherlock.

In fact, Sherlock sat in his chair, facing the television with a contemplative look on his face. Andy sat on his lap, lightly swinging her legs in time with the music as she sang along with the theme tune. “Do you know you’re all my very best frieeenndss?”

Pleasantly surprised, John opened his mouth to announce his presence, but Andy spoke up before he could. “Daddy, why do you like Twilight best?”

“I understand her desire to prove her assertions correct and appreciate her scientific principles, even if she did concede to Pinkie Pie’s irrational extra-sensory perception. Had she remained on the case, I’m certain she would have reached a rational conclusion.”

“Mm, I suppose. But Rarity’s the best. She’s a proper lady and her dresses are pretty.”

“At least we agree that there’s something inherently superior about unicorns,” Sherlock said. He frowned and continued, “But they really ought to switch Applejack and Rainbow Dash’s elements. As it stands, it’s a jarring logical inconsistency. Applejack is objectively more loyal, and Rainbow Dash objectively more honest.”

Andy nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! I’ve thought that for _ages!_ ”

John blinked several times before backed out of the doorway. Dazed, he returned to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and gave the door a distracted knock. “It’s me again.”

Abby unlocked the door again and appraised the look on John’s face. He opened the door wider, inviting him in. “I told you.”

Once the door closed behind him, John dropped the grocery bags unceremoniously. “I’m still not sure what I just saw,” he murmured.

Abby sighed. “Our family’s got two of them now. I wish I were old enough to drink.”

“Me too.” John shook his head slightly. “Wait, I mean, too bad. No drinking.”

Unfortunately for Abby, Sherlock appeared to enjoy _the programme_ enough that he advocated they all watch it as a family, which made their son pull a face that looked like he’d been told every single Christmas for the rest of his life was cancelled. It got to the point that John began to believe that the only reason why Sherlock’s enthusiasm wasn’t quite that of Andy’s (who was beyond overjoyed to have company watching with her, even if half of the audience was technically captive) was due to a very particular episode.

“ _The hat!_ ” Sherlock hissed when he saw it. “People in the colonies are somehow under the impression that I smoked a pipe over cigarettes, yet they accurately represent the hat?!”

“First of all, it’s not ‘the colonies’ anymore, Sherlock – hasn’t been for well over 200 years. Second, I doubt they can show cigarettes in children’s cartoons, though they can get away with bubble pipes. But more importantly, at least they got something right about you, even if it’s a thing you hate,” John said. He frowned. “I’m hardly just a lowly assistant who asks silly questions with obvious answers.”

“No, I’m inclined to agree with at least part of that.”

Andy, too elated to care about the argument, simply kept nudging her older brother. “Abby! Abby! Our daddy and papa are so famous that even the _ponies_ know who they are! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Abby sat slumped, mortified, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to find a nice, deep hole to bury himself in for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m gonna be taller than you.”

Abby looked up from his work, only to be greeted by the far-too-close sight of his younger sister’s strange grey eyes. He sighed. “Probably. Alphas are usually taller than Omegas. Plus I only got my hair, skin, and _maybe_ my nose from Dad. You got all his weird scarecrow bones, every last one of them.”

“I do not have scarecrow bones!”

“Yes, you do.” Using his pencil eraser, Abby prodded the sharp jut in her cheek. “You have those cheekbones. Look, it’s even got the word ‘bones’ in it.”

Andy gave an indignant huff and ran off. Abby heard her speed down the stairs, run around downstairs, and speed back up. “Papa says my cheekbones are pretty. I’m prettier than you!”

“Agreed.”

“Well, you’re- wait.” Andy squinted at him in suspicion. “You agree that I’m prettier than you?”

“Of course. But why should I care about being pretty at all? I’m a _boy_ , in case you forgot.” He tapped his pencil to the sheet of paper in front of him. “Now are you done being stupidly competitive for no reason yet? You’re interrupting my schoolwork.”

“Liar! School doesn’t start for another week. I know ‘cause I’m finally starting this year. So you can’t have schoolwork yet.” 

“I’m 10, so I’m not even close to being a baby anymore - ”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Didn’t say you were. The higher you get in school, the more work you get. So because I’m starting my final year of primary school, I have to do loads of things. Just because your class will be all about learning to read and count to a hundred doesn’t mean that’s the case for every year.” He held up a hand to silence his sister, who had opened her mouth to reply. “And I _know_ you can already do those things. You don’t have to remind me. I could do that stuff before school too.”

“Hm, that makes sense, I suppose. It’d be boring if we had the same things every year,” Andy muttered. She craned her neck to try to get a look at the paper. “What’re you working on, then?”

“I have to write a report about what I did over summer holidays.”

Andy scoffed. “But you didn’t do anything.”

“I did so. I did each week’s Nature Detectives project, I read twenty books, and I went camping for a whole week with Sanjay, Trev, and Trev’s uncles and cousins on their land by Ashdown Forest.”

“That was a nice week. It was like being an only child,” Andy said, smiling dreamily. After a moment’s reverie, she continued, “But that’s all boring stuff. That’s mostly getting dirty in the icky woods with your only two friends.”

“They’re not my _only_ friends; they’re my best ones.” He gave her a pointed look. “And even if they were, two is more than zero.”

Andy’s cheeks burned red and she made a scandalized sound. “I’ll show you! When I start school, I’ll… I’ll make a billion friends! A billion and seven! That’s much more than two!” She stormed off for the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “You’ll see!”

Abby shook his head and grumbled, “Little siblings.”

Several minutes later, just when he was recounting the size of the fish he caught on the camping trip, he was surprised when the mobile his parents had given him for contact in case of emergencies buzzed on his desk. He picked it up and looked at the new text.

_She may be my heir apparent, but for the record, I agree with your statement. – M_

“Stop bugging the flat, Uncle Mycroft!”

\---

One week later, the big day finally arrived. Andy insisted on waking up hours before she needed to so she could get as ready as possible. She checked and re-checked the contents of her school bag. She reorganized her pencil box multiple times, making sure to get each and every crayon in their spot according to the spectrum of the rainbow. She straightened the pleats on her blue-and-green plaid skirt every time she sat down or stood up, and made sure her white polo shirt tucked in properly. 

By the time Abby finally wandered downstairs, blearily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Andy was sitting primly on a footstool as John combed out her long, slightly wavy hair. “Finally, sleepyhead!” she exclaimed. 

“Morning, Abby,” John said. He glimpsed up as his son as he began braiding Andy’s hair into pigtails. “Wow. Looks like we’ll need to get you in for a haircut soon.”

“But I like my long hair!” Andy protested.

“Your brother, not you,” John said. “Any longer and he’s going to start looking like the kind of person who believes God is giving them messages through their soup.” He and Andy shared a giggle at that.

“Ha ha,” Abby said sarcastically over them. He tried to push down an especially wild curl with one hand, but it sprang back up undeterred. He started tucking his dark green polo into his black trousers, heading for the kitchen as he did so, but John interrupted him.

“Nope, not a cereal day. Your grandmum’s making breakfast, so we’re stopping by before school.”

“Oh _yes_.” Abby turned on his heel, away from the kitchen. His eyes closed in delight. “That means pancakes.”

“Yay!” Andy exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air, but the movement caused a tug at the hair John was still braiding. “Ouch.”

John chuckled as he tied off Andy’s second pigtail. “Come on. Let’s round up your father from his lab and head to your grandmum’s. It’s a special occasion, so maybe I can get him to ingest something more than coffee this morning.”

\---

A hearty breakfast and a short tube ride later, Andy stared at the buildings looming before her, just beyond a set of open wrought-iron gates. The school was clearly quite old, with elegant architecture and quite a few walls covered in ambling, curling vines. She was quite impressed by how noble it all seemed, but it was all so much… larger than she had expected. She startled slightly as Abby called out, trotting ahead through the gates to join a group of four boys his own age, who clapped him on the shoulder in welcome. Or at least she presumed they were his age. Like the buildings, so many of the students looked bigger than she thought they would. She swallowed, still tasting a hint of syrup on her tongue.

“Do the crinkles in my skirt look okay?”

John gave her a reassuring pat on the head. “They’re called pleats, Andy, and they’re just fine.”

“Ah, my hair! How about my ribbons? Are they pink enough?”

“They are quintessentially pink, Andromeda. The world did not truly know pink until they were created.”

“What about-“

“Andy,” John said softly. He stooped down to her height and gently cupped her chin in his hand. “You’re fine. Everything is fine. Okay? It’s perfectly natural to be nervous, but - ”

“I’m not nervous!” Her lips twitched slightly and her brows furrowed. “Not at all! I just – I have to prove something to Abby and I need to look my best to win. That’s all.” 

John didn’t look very convinced, but before he could say anything else, Sherlock tapped his shoulder. 

“There’s a woman approaching,” he said quietly. He sniffed. “Beta. A teacher. Year 1 if the overabundance of enthusiasm and sickening, treacly perfume which attempts – and fails, may I add - to mimic some of the scent undertones of a bonded Omega is anything to go by. Wants to seem as motherly as possible. I’ve been told that sort of thing is calming for small children out of their element.” He cocked his head, scrutinizing further as the bubbly woman drew nearer. “Though the state of her pantyhose and the speck on the collar of her blouse implies that she’s sleeping with at least two members of the custodial staff and one dinner lady. Possibly all at once. Not the most impressive scandal I’ve unearthed about the faculty here – can’t be after the incident with the assistant physical education teacher and the goat – but still a surprising display of debauchery for someone who is only beginning her career here. Once again I find myself asking why Mycroft is so very adamant about our children attending this school to the point of paying tuition.”

John removed his hands from Andy’s ears, which he had covered once the word ‘pantyhose’ came up, knowing no good could possibly come of it. “I swear, Sherlock, we are having _such_ a talk later,” John hissed through clenched teeth, which he passed off as a smile as the woman finally arrived. 

She was quite young, and it was likely that she only recently received her teaching credentials. “Hello there! I’m Miss Huxtable –“

“Huxtable,” Sherlock murmured. Realization lit up in his eyes and he drew in a sharp breath. “Related to the founder and headmaster.”

Miss Huxtable blinked in surprise. “Good guess! Yes, I am. I’m his grandniece.” She winked one brown eye at them and said in a hushed, confidential voice, “So sometimes I slip and call him ‘Uncle Thorney’ instead of ‘Headmaster’.”

In a hushed voice, Sherlock continued, “Of _course_ \- nepoti-“ He didn’t finish, since John stamped on his foot.

“Nepoti. It’s, er, Ukrainian for hello,” John said. He smiled awkwardly. 

“Really? Wow, how interesting! Nepoti to you all!” Miss Huxtable beamed. “Are you Ukrainian?”

“Er, no. It’s, ah – so are you the new Year 1 instructor?”

“I certainly am. Just thought I’d come over and see if this little one here is one of my new ducklings.” She smiled warmly at Andy and asked, “What’s your name?”

Andy wrinkled her nose and announced, “You smell weird.”

“Andromeda Marie Holmes, that is _not_ how you talk to teachers! Apologize right now.” John chastised. As his daughter mumbled something that may have been an apology, John turned to give Miss Huxtable a contrite look. “I’m really sorry. She’s a bit… headstrong sometimes.” He caught Sherlock’s proud smirk out of the corner of his eye, and added, “I have absolutely _no_ idea where she could have possibly got that from.”

Miss Huxtable laughed. “If I were bothered by little things like that, I’d make a pretty poor teacher! I heard much, much worse when I was in training. Plus my little brother is an Alpha, so I know how obstinate they can be.” In a sweeter voice, she addressed Andy again, “Andromeda, right? That’s a beautiful name. And I’ve thought so for a few weeks now. Do you know why?”

Andy gave her an appraising look for a moment. “Because my name is on the class list.”

“Because your name - oh.” Miss Huxtable blinked, but then a surprised grin spread across her lips. “Oh, it’s fun when there are clever ones in the mix,” she said, mostly to herself.

A loud, pleasant chime rang out from the school’s bell tower, and Miss Huxtable looked up. “That means that class is about to start. How about walking with me to class? It’d be nice to have company.”

Andy took a deep breath and nodded. “I suppose that’s okay. Since I have to go there anyway, I mean.” Even with such flippant words, she lingered a bit when she hugged her parents goodbye. She tried to hold her head extra high and stride extra purposefully on her way into the school to make up for it.

\---

The problems started barely five minutes into class, when it was announced that each student would get up one at a time to introduce themselves to their classmates. They were to state their name, their birthday, one of their favourite things, and what they wanted to be when they grew up. This wasn’t what would set things off on the wrong foot. That unfortunate distinction belonged to a combination of three things: the introductions’ organization, statistics, and the nigh-astronomical potential children have for needless cruelty.

“You kids know the old saying, ‘Omegas first’. While that’s pretty outdated, that doesn’t mean they can’t _ever_ go first. So for our introductions today, we’ll go Omega-Beta-Alpha. We’ll switch things up all the time over the course of the year. Some days we may even form groups based on our birthdays or if you’re a girl or boy,” Miss Huxtable said. “Now, let’s get started.”

One after another, three Omega girls came up and introduced themselves: Claire, Elizabeth, Sruthi. 

There weren’t any Omega boys, so the class moved on to the Betas. The Beta girls lined up and took their turns: Miranda, Fatima, Amanda, Eleanor.

When Miss Huxtable called on the Beta boys to line up, Miranda raised her hand. “Teacher, you skipped her,” she said, pointing at Andy. 

“Because it isn’t her turn yet. Don’t worry; nobody is going to be forgotten.”

“Maybe it’s a boy in a skirt,” Amanda whispered to Fatima. They tittered. Andy just barely heard them and fumed.

The Beta boys had their turn: Dylan, Fred, Aiden, Robert.

Finally, Miss Huxtable called Andy – the only Alpha girl – up. 

Andy cleared her throat, tilted her chin up, and said, “My name is Andromeda Marie Holmes. My birthday is 07 November, and my favourite colour is shocking pink with rainbow glitter in. When I grow up, I’m going to be the Queen… or a unicorn. But both at once would be best.” She looked at the blank faces of her classmates, and a small twinge of unease settled around her brow. Hastily, she added, “My papa and brother call me Andy, and I suppose I don’t mind too much if others call me that.”

“Okay, class, what do we say?”

The response started off relatively unified for having come from a group of five year olds: “Nice to meet you – “ However, it devolved into a jumbled mess with the class roughly split between calling her ‘Andromeda’ and ‘Andy’. 

Andy had a hard time focusing through the introductions of the other Alphas once Miss Huxtable called them to line up, but she persevered through the introductions of Paul, Lucas, and Judah. But even as she listened to their favourites and aspirations, she was preoccupied with the sensation that she had somehow swallowed a ball of iron which was now tugging low at her insides, making her feel off-kilter and ill at ease. Such feelings were as unfamiliar as they were unwelcome.

Barely an hour and a half later, during the twenty minute play break, that ball of iron would become a cannonball. 

\---

_Maybe an evil witch put a curse on me,_ Andy wondered to herself as she picked at the waning summer blooms of the enormous honeysuckle vine that dominated the far east fence of the play yard. _That would explain everything._

“Note to self,” she murmured, twirling a flower by its stamen. She watched the petals flutter like a dancer’s billowing dress. “Get Daddy to look for evidence that Miss Huxtable is a witch. Or have Uncle Mycroft go over her records.” Even if it wasn’t Miss Huxtable, she was sure the witch was somewhere in the school. After all, everything had been normal until less than two hours ago. She sighed and tossed the flower aside.

Her solitude was not her fault. She wasn’t shy, not even remotely. In fact, as soon as the break had begun, she started approaching her classmates. When she went up to Miranda and Sruthi to see if they wanted to play make-believe (“We can be three mermaids on an adventure to keep the Shark King from taking over our reef.”), they said they were already playing a two-person game of sisters lost in the wilderness. When Andy suggested she could be a forest fairy who helps the sisters out, they said they were trying to make a realistic game. Claire only wanted to practice what she’d learned in her gymnastics classes on the climbing frame. Elizabeth was terrorizing the Beta boys, who were refusing to let her join their football scrimmage. Finally, Andy hadn’t seen Eleanor at all; she suspected the girl had hidden herself away somewhere. 

And that was all the living students Andy cared about interacting with. Amanda and Fatima were still dead to her thanks to the comment from earlier. Only time would tell if this verdict would be worth reconsidering. 

And so Andy sat by the flowers, alone, thinking deeply about what would lift her curse. She’d be fine if it required a quest to recover an ancient magical amulet or a journey to an enchanted pool deep in the mountains, but she didn’t know what she’d do if it was the type of curse that could only be lifted with a kiss. In those types of stories, it was always the dashing Alpha who delivered the saving kiss. She didn’t particularly want to kiss anybody, but _especially_ not another Alpha. 

“Andrew!”

Maybe she could be diplomatic with the witch. From her games with Uncle Mycroft, she’d decided that the definition of ‘diplomacy’ was ‘to make people think they’re getting their way, when really only you are’, and she was getting quite good at it. She could see about wording a treaty so confusingly that the witch thought it would be a great deal, when really it would release Andy from her curse _and_ entitle her to half the witch’s magic.

“Andrew!”

The first thing she’d do with her legally acquired magic would be to make Abby less boring. She’d start by making him like ponies.

“Oi, Andrew!”

Andy finally looked up, prepared to yell at whoever kept calling for somebody who wasn’t even a member of their class, only to see the other Alphas staring at her. 

Judah and Lucas stood back a bit behind Paul, both looking slightly awkward and uncomfortable. Paul, who had blond hair and was rather tall for his age, smirked at her. “Y’know, Andrew, it’s rude to not respond when your name gets called.”

If the venom in Andy’s glare could actually poison somebody, Paul would have instantly begun seizing and foaming at the mouth. “My name is not Andrew,” she growled.

“Sure it is! Your nickname’s Andy, right? That’s short for Andrew!”

Andy stood, never breaking eye contact with Paul even as she dusted the flower petals off her skirt. “It’s short for _Andromeda_.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Paul said. He grinned wider. In an adult Alpha, an expression like that could be quite a threatening challenge. But since it was coming from someone who still had all his baby teeth, it was much less impressive, especially since he was lazily chewing on something indiscernible. “Think of it like this: boys were introduced before you and after you and unlike most girls, y’can’t have babies. Even _Beta_ ladies can have babies if they try really hard. So you’re much more on the boy end of stuff. You’ll never be what you wanna be when you grow up, not just because of royalty stuff, but because you’re a boy.”

“I’m not a boy! And I’ve got a much, _much_ better chance of getting my way than you do!” She curled her lip at him, showing some of her own not terribly threatening baby teeth. “You said you wanted to be a sports teacher for primary, right? Well you can’t. Never can. Never, ever, ever. Because it’s illegal for Alphas like us to teach anything below university, unless it’s an all-Alpha school. Don’t know why, but it’s the law. But it’s not illegal for me to be Queen. It’s just a challenge.”

Paul glared at Andy. Andy glared at Paul. Lucas ran off, calling for Miss Huxtable. Judah watched, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Paul scoffed, turning to leave. A thrill she didn’t fully understand coursed through Andy; she’d won the confrontation. “No wonder there’re so few girl Alphas. They’re all freaks,” he taunted.

Andy’s blood boiled.

She launched herself at the boy, and a harsh clap rang out as she slapped his cheek. Paul touched the stinging red mark and, growling, took a swing at Andy. She dodged, but as she swerved, she saw Paul spit into his hand out of the corner of her eye. He came at her again, and managed to tackle her to the ground, slapping the back of her head with his open palm as they fell. Andy’s ribbons came untied, causing her long hair to unfurl from its braids and twist and tangle in the commotion. They scuffled for a bit, jabbing with elbows and knees, just barely hearing the chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” over the sounds of their brawling. 

The fight lasted less than a minute before Andy felt a firm hand pull at her collar. She tried to get in one last kick to no avail. Miss Huxtable had Andy while a yard supervisor had Paul, who was still swinging his arms. “There is _absolutely_ no fighting allowed at this school!” Miss Huxtable bellowed. “Counselor’s office _now_ , the both of you! And you had better believe we are calling your parents!”

Hot, bitter tears stung Andy’s eyes the whole way to the office. She tried to convince herself it was only because her knees and elbows were scraped and the back of her head ached, but she couldn’t manage it.

\---

“Less than two hours,” John said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and the corners of his clenched eyes as he and Sherlock waited outside the school counselor’s office. “Less than two hours into the very first day of school and already there’s ‘been an incident’.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was too busy peering far down the hall, where a set of parents were having words with their scuffed-up blond son as they escorted him out of the school. John removed his hand from his face, looked at Sherlock, and caught the trajectory of his sight. “No,” he stated.

“No what?” Sherlock grumbled, still watching the other family.

“God, where to start? No finding out more about them for the express purpose of torment, no threats of any sort, no starting a generations-spanning blood feud between our family and theirs… basically, no doing _anything_ that the angry instinctual monkey part of the brain thinks is a great idea right now.” 

“I don’t have that part.”

“Yeah, no, about ten years too late to try to make that claim. You do; I’ve seen it. I’ve got one too, but I’m telling it very loudly to shut up.”

Before the conversation could continue, the counselor – a woman in her late fifties – cracked open the door to her office, inviting them in. Andy, her hair and uniform a terrible mess, sat on a smaller chair between two larger ones. Her backpack and other supplies sat in her lap, and she clutched them like a lifeline. She glanced up, but quickly looked down again, swinging her legs in agitation. Sherlock and John took their seats on each side of her. 

The counselor folded her hands together grimly and began, “Before we really begin to discuss this matter, let me say that, although it is true Andromeda was goaded into the fight, there is no excuse for resorting to violence when provoked.”

“I have absolutely no idea where she could have got that from,” Sherlock said, his tone dry. John gave him a sidelong glance.

With that, the counselor laid out the situation as she had pieced it together from both sides of the story. It was easy to tell which parts Andy felt insufficiently described her position, as her face found a way to scrunch up even further and she fidgeted terribly. During one particularly dramatic displeased wiggle, Sherlock caught sight of the back of Andy’s head. His expression went stony.

“It can be difficult for a child in Andromeda’s position to adjust to a social atmosphere, such as a school. Only about one in four Alphas are female,” the counselor said. She looked at John. “And of course the same is true for male Omegas. Mr. Holmes – “

“Dr. Watson, actually,” John corrected. “Never saw the need to change the name. Plus calling myself ‘John Holmes’ lumps me in with some pretty embarrassing company when it comes to Google searches.”

The counselor looked slightly flustered. “I apologize. But Dr. Watson, I feel you’re in an especially good position to talk to Andromeda about issues like this. It may help get to the root over why she’s so sensitive about the subject. Andromeda will be sent home early today, and I trust that when she returns to school tomorrow, she will have a very clear idea of what is and is not an acceptable way of dealing with anger.”

“And _I_ trust that you will call that last family back and add further charges to their spawn’s list of injustices against my daughter,” Sherlock interrupted. He stood, pushing his chair aside gracelessly in the process. “The possession of chewing gum is against the rules of this establishment, and yet there is a dried-out, knotted wad of the stuff infesting Andromeda’s hair.”

“What?” Andy breathed. She began patting her hair. When she landed on a tangle at the base of her skull, an investigative prod revealed that it had a dense, faintly sticky core. “Get it out!”

If the meeting wasn’t over before, that was its death knell. No further progress could be made, no more points and counter-points discussed, no more concentration given – not after the look of raw desperation Andy levied at her parents.

Keeping his tone and movements as soothing as he could, John urged Andy not to pull or mess with her hair, lest the tangle worsen or expand. With a hand on the girl’s back, he guided her up and out of the office while Sherlock signed the school document which officially released Andy for the rest of the afternoon. 

As they passed through the gate, the compounding stress of the day finally seemed to hit the little girl full-on. John noticed the approaching breakdown first. He was holding hands with Andy as Sherlock strode a few paces ahead, loudly brainstorming and rambling off the names of various chemicals and compounds which could be used to remove gum from hair. The little hand in his began to tremble, and John lifted Andy up into his arms to carry her for the remaining time it takes to get to the flat. Andy’s ragged breath ghosted over John’s neck the entire trip, but he didn’t feel the tell-tale drops of tears.

When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock spent the next full hour and a half trying various gum-removal methods. After going on a tirade on the subject of the molecular makeup of gum, he laid out a plethora of potential solutions. But to no avail. None of the many different types of oils or multiple brands of petroleum jellies and adhesive removers helped the situation. The gum was simply too soiled with play yard grit and too knotted deep into Andy’s thick, wavy hair for an easy extraction.

It was half-past two when the code was called: Andy’s hair was unsalvageable. Sherlock went to fetch Abby from school while John called a local hair salon to make sure anyone was available to cut Andy’s hair. The little girl clung to his knees the whole time, her face pressed mournfully into his thigh. 

Her tears finally came, bitter and plentiful and flowing all the way to the salon.

\---

“It’s called a pixie cut,” the hairdresser said, holding her hand mirror in such a way that Andy could see the back of her head as well. An awkward smile spread across her ruby-red lips. “Because it makes you look like a pixie, y’know?”

The red-eyed, tear-flushed, miserable expression on Andy’s face stood in stark contrast to the bright pink apron draped over her as well as the unicorn-shaped children’s salon chair upon which she sat. She looked down at the floor, covered by the sad remains of what had once been her prized locks. She looked back at the mirror and the tragedy it held. “I do look like a pixie,” Andy said. Her lips trembled and her voice cracked. “A _boy_ pixie. They’re… they’re going to call me Andrew Murray Holmes now and- and we should just get Uncle Mycroft to put in the name change paperwork to save time.”

With that, she began sobbing again. As the hairdressers scrambled to find pictures of beautiful female models with pixie cuts in an attempt to raise Andy’s spirits, John sent a text.

\---

_THEY HAD TO CUT VERY SHORT. ANDY IS EXTREMELY DISPLEASED._

Sherlock sighed at the text. He really thought he’d have been able to crack the gum situation if John had just given him more time. Yes, Andromeda had begun to complain about her scalp feeling incredibly greasy as the tests went on. And again - yes, Sherlock had been running out of materials that weren’t corrosive or poisonous in one way or another. But still, Sherlock hated being bested, especially when his opponent was chewing gum.

He looked up from his phone when he heard his son’s voice calling him. Absalom trotted up to him, but his smile faltered when he saw no sign of his sister. Looking around in confusion, he asked about her whereabouts.

“There was an altercation during her break period over the fact that she is the only Alpha girl in her class – indeed, the only one below third year. When we came up to sort out the situation, I observed that the idiotic classmate she had come to blows with chose to dispose of his used chewing gum in her hair.”

Abby frowned. “Poor Andy,” he murmured. “She may be a brat sometimes, but she doesn’t deserve that.”

They stopped at a pedestrian crossing as the light turned and cars began to pass before them. “Much of Andromeda’s behaviour is very familiar to me,” Sherlock stated. “Once you swap out the interests in fairies, fantasy and the like, of course.”

Abby grinned up at his father. “But not the unicorn thing, eh? Bet that doesn’t get swapped out.”

Sherlock snorted, and if he was trying to conceal the amused twitch in his lips, it wasn’t going very well.

They were quiet for a while as the cars passed. When the light changed, Sherlock took a few steps to cross, but stopped when he noticed Abby wasn’t following. The boy had a thoughtful look on his face. 

“Are we in a rush? Papa said something to me this morning, and now I think it’s a very good idea. But we’d have to keep going up this street for a little bit,” Andy said, gesturing to the road perpendicular to the pedestrian crossing. “And with what I’ve got in mind, it won’t take long.”

Sherlock made his way back to his son’s side. His eyes took in the determined set to the boy’s dark eyebrows and the way he fiddled with a curl by his left ear. The boy’s plan struck him instantly. “Are you sure, Absalom?”

Abby grinned. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

\---

Andromeda felt that the universe owed her a good, long sulk. At the very, very least. So as soon as the ordeal at the hairdresser’s was done and she was back home, she scrambled upstairs and threw herself onto her bed. John had tried to console her, rubbing circles into her back and saying soft words of reassurance, but she kept her face pressed into her pillow, unresponsive. 

When John heard Sherlock and Abby come home, he kissed Andy on the temple and said he’d be back after checking in with them. Andy just pushed her face further into her lavender pillowcase. She listened to John’s footsteps as he went downstairs. She looked up briefly when she heard him shout, “Jesus Christ!”, but let her head flop back down when his voice turned quiet again. 

A few minutes later, more footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. The bedroom door opened and shut quietly, accompanied by Abby’s voice. “Hey, Andy.”

“Go ‘way.”

“Nope. This is my room too. I’ve got every right to be here.”

Andy moaned.

Undeterred, Abby continued. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“No.”

Andy heard her brother sigh. He walked over to her bed, and she felt the mattress dip as he sat down near her. “I think you’d be very interested.”

Andy shook her head into her pillow. “Mm-mm.”

“How about we talk, then?”

The little girl lay motionless, but didn’t seem to directly oppose the notion.

“Okay, I’ll start,” Abby said. “My first day of school could’ve ended up just like yours.”

“Didn’t, though. ’s diff’rent,” Andy mumbled. “Y’have Trev.”

“You’re right. I’m really lucky there was another boy Omega in my class, and I’m sorry you don’t have somebody else like you in yours. But even though it’s nice to have company, you don’t need others like you to hold your head up high.”

“Dun wanna hold my head up high anymore,” Andy croaked. “’s covered in _boy hair_.”

“It’s not boy hair. If it’s your hair, it can never be boy hair, no matter how short it is. ‘Cause you’re the girliest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“But stupid Paul thinks I’m not a girl just ‘cause I’m an Alpha. ‘Cause most girls can have babies, but I can’t.”

“Do you even _want_ to? I mean, when you’re grown up.”

“Ew, no. That would be weird. An Alpha having a baby?” She chuckled for a moment before she seemed to remember her abject misery. She sighed heavily into her pillow.

“So you don’t want that. And even if you did, the fact that you can’t doesn’t make you any less of a girl. Just like how it’s the other way ‘round for Papa and I, and we’re still guys. Plus, you said yourself that Paul is stupid. Why do you care what stupid people think?”

“He was being stupid _so_ loudly, though.”

“So you just have to be smart even louder. I know you can do it.”

Andy sniffed and whispered, “Thanks.”

Abby smiled. “Are you ready to look up and see the thing I want to show you?”

“Suppose so.” The little girl raised her head, her bleary grey eyes fixing on her brother’s form. As they cleared, they flew open wide in surprise. “What – what - _you’re bald!_ ”

“I’m not bald.” Abby ran his hand over the bristles of his extremely short crew cut. “Got a haircut. Couldn’t have longer hair than my own sister, right?” He grinned sheepishly. “It’d be weird.”

At first, Andy stared at him blankly. Then, her face began to scrunch up as if she had bitten into a lemon. She pulled herself into a sitting position and flung herself at her brother, burying her face in his chest. “Oh Abby,” she moaned between sounds that were impossible to distinguish between sobs and laughter. “You look so stupid! There’s a reason you had all that dark hair, and it’s ‘cause your head’s shaped funny!”

“Isn’t!” Abby protested, even as he wrapped his arms around her. “And you’d better not be getting bogeys in my shirt.”

Andy sniffled and laughed. After a moment, she hugged Abby tighter and quietly said, “I’m glad you’re my brother, even if your head is weird.”

Abby rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond as he patted his sister’s significantly shorter hair. “I love you too, even if you’re a ridiculous drama queen. But still a queen. That’s what matters.”

“Still a queen… That’s it! I’m still a queen! Abby, you’re wonderful!” She squirmed out of the embrace and slid off her bed. She reached beneath it and pulled out several pink storage tubs filled with various art supplies: construction paper, crayons, markers, glue sticks, glitter, and all kinds of plastic jewels.

“What are you doing?” Abby asked.

“You’ll see. Everyone will. And it will be _marvelous_.” Andy began carefully selecting precisely what she needed. She looked up from her process and gave her brother a sneaky smile. “You may want to leave the room, though. I’m probably going to start singing Rarity’s songs while I work.”

Abby ran out of the room as if he were practicing to compete in an Olympic sprint. 

\---

The next day, when Andy came downstairs, John nearly dropped his cup of coffee.

She was dressed in her clean uniform, but she’d acquired a few accessories. She was wearing her butterfly wings, but that was the least of her work. She had made a crown out of gold construction paper, which she had carefully adorned with plastic “emeralds”, “rubies”, and “sapphires”. She had also constructed a pink sash out of a length of wide pink ribbon that had been subjected to at least two rounds of glitter application. She’d also written “FAERIE QUEENE” all down the sash in the most intricate handwriting someone her age could muster. 

John wasn’t sure if it was a misspelling or if – somehow – his five-year old was already familiar with Spenser. It was a really difficult distinction to make given the Holmes genes.

“Andy, listen to me,” he said. “There’s a dress code. You can’t wear that in school.”

“I’ll take it all off before class starts and keep them with my other things.”

“The other children may tease you again.”

“They can try. I dare them.”

John frowned. “I’m glad your confidence is back – I really, really am, but Andromeda Marie, if you get involved in another fight…”

“I’m already fighting. But not with my fists this time. Promise.” She tapped the construction paper crown perched atop her head and jostled her shoulders to make her dress-up wings move in a way that vaguely resembled a flap. “With this.”

They got plenty of looks on the way to school, which only increased in number as Abby and Andy went through the gates. Abby’s friends and classmates all gawked at him, and the ones who knew his family best asked if one of his father’s weird experiments had anything to do with the dramatic change to his look. 

But whatever attention Abby got quickly switched to Andy as she strolled through the halls of the school in her full regalia, her chin high and her short hair in full display. When she reached her classroom, she stood proudly at the door, soaking in the surprised looks on her classmates’ faces for a solid moment before she removed and put away her accessories.

Miranda, Sruthi, and Claire were quickly at her side, asking where she got the items. When she explained that she had made everything except the wings, they asked if she could show them later on. While this was certainly much better than what she had experienced yesterday, the best reaction she’d get would happen at the play break, exactly 24 hours after the whole affair began.

\---

Technically speaking, Andy didn’t _get_ a play break, nor would she get one for the rest of the week. Her official punishment for the fight was that she had to stay in the classroom and quietly perform busywork while all the other children (except Paul, who had a similar punishment in a different classroom) played. 

But as she began writing her fifth line of ‘I must not get into fights.’, she heard a quiet knocking sound. She looked up and noticed that the elderly librarian who had been summoned to watch the Andy while Miss Huxtable and the rest of the class were outside had dozed off at the desk. Andy heard the tentative tap again. Glancing around, she saw a small, mousy girl with light brown hair tapping at the window that faced the play yard. 

The window was cracked open slightly, as it was a beautiful day out and Miss Huxtable had wanted the class to have some fresh air. She’d neglected closing it before the break. Quietly, Andy crept to the window, careful not to wake her slumbering charge.

The girl was Eleanor, who was meek and easily overlooked. She looked down at her shoes shyly as Andy came up to the window. “H-hi.”

“Hi,” Andy whispered.

“I, um. I wanted to say a few things to you,” Eleanor said. “Um. I heard what you and Paul were talking about yesterday. I was, um, I was hiding behind some bushes nearby. And I overheard. I didn’t mean to, but. Well. A-and I wanted to say that you’re right. Two of my aunties are Alphas, and they’re both so pretty and sweet and… and what Paul said was really mean. I wanted to stand up and say something, but I just… couldn’t.”

“You’re standing up and saying something now.”

Eleanor flushed. “Th-that’s another thing. If what happened to you yesterday happened to me, I’d –“ She looked back up at Andy, her hazel eyes wide. “W-well, I don’t know what I’d do. But I wouldn’t be here. I’d probably still be at home crying. And I just wanted to say that… that I thought it was really brave, how you looked this morning. Um. And I thought, ah… I thought that if you could be so brave, maybe I can too.”

Andy blinked. It was funny how inspiration flowed from person to person. “Thank you.”

“I- I also wanted to say that I really like your hair. I mean, I liked it before, but I like it today too. And um. If you want… I mean, you can say no, I won’t be upset… um, wouldyouliketobefriendswithme?”

“Did you just ask if we could be friends?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have thought to… I…”

“I’d love to.”

“… it was a stupid idea… wait, you would?”

Andy beamed at Eleanor. “Absolutely. It just took me a second to understand what you said, since you said it so fast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you can stop apologizing. Actually, you’re the first person who’s asked me to be her friend, so we can be _best_ friends since you asked first.”

“Really?” For all her plainness, Eleanor smiled like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. She gave a little gasp and mumbled something about nearly forgetting. She looked down, rummaging for something, and when her eyes met Andy’s again, she slipped a little white flower through the gap in the window. “I picked this for you, to help you feel better for missing the break. B-but now it can be to celebrate being friends.”

The librarian gave a great snore, which made Andy jump. “I’ll see you in class,” she said to Eleanor. The two waved, and while Eleanor wandered back to the main play yard, Andy practically drifted back to her seat in elation.

“That’s one down,” she whispered to herself. “A billion and six to go.” 

With that, she resumed copying the lines of her punishment, grinning hugely the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it's spot the ACD reference time. I feel this one is more vague than the others, but I can never accurately judge these things.
> 
> And with that, there's only one epilogue left. I'll do my best to have it out sooner, but I'm moving across the world at the end of the month, so RL will continue to be hectic. Furthermore, I originally planned for the final epilogue to only have one chapter, but it looks like that will no longer be the case. Mostly because I got an idea for an opening chapter wherein Moriarty and Moran play hide-and-go-fuck in the ruins of a mental asylum, and... well. 
> 
> On the subject of the final epilogue, I'm curious. Would you readers prefer if I update the final epilogue as I complete each chapter, or upload the finished work all at once as I did with the first two epilogues? I'll go with whichever option most people prefer. I ask because parts of this fic would have been posted much sooner.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for reading! I appreciate each and every one of you more than I can properly express. :)


End file.
